X-Men: The Beautiful Ones
by Falsey
Summary: Think of everything you know about the X-Men, then smash your head in with a brick. Britain, 1996; Spies, Espionage, Betrayal. Two former Cold War allies caught in a game of cat and mouse. SIS, New Labour, Radiohead. Lovers, old and new, torn apart by politics and duty. A complete retelling of the X-Men, set in an alternative post-Cold War setting. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Mutant.
1. Chapter 1

X-Men: The Beautiful Ones, Chapter 1

"And if your baby's going crazy, that's how you made me" - Suede, _Beautiful Ones_

* * *

As she looked up at the white building, she really wished she had brought her parka. All though she hardly disliked the trench coat she was wearing (and if it wasn't too vain to admit, adored how its plain white colour complimented her hair), she hardly expected it to take so long for the target to appear; the idea of spending four hours of an October evening out on the streets on South Kensington hadn't crossed her mind when she was dressing. Although by that point, everyone involved in the mission was aware of this.

"Well, they can hadly blame me for that" she mumbled to herself. "If they were as bored as I've been these past four hours, I'm sure they'd be exploiting any sort of telepathic hotline they could get their grubby hands on."

She lit another cigarette, feeling that her last smoke had been thoroughly ruined. The young barista inside the coffee shop had noticed the abnormal amount of time she was taking to drink her coffee after an hour and, having finished debating with himself whether or not to approach her, struck up the courage to talk to her after another two. His concern for her would perhaps have been endearing had it not been for the images of (presumably) her naked body crossing his mind every twenty second during their short chat. That thought only made her feel more miserable however, as she once more noted how that had almost certainly been the case in all her first conversations with members of the male species. Just as her thoughts dwelled on the only exception to that rule, who eventually came out as gay, a black cab pulled in front of the hotel's entrance. After a noticeable delay, the ignition was turned off and three men in suits left the cab, each surrounding a notably less-suited man. She closed her eyes and focused. After a few moments, an unheard voice echoed from nowhere in particular.

_(are they going to kill me are they going to kill me didn't I do what I promised are they going to kill me)_

She noticed as his eyes darted back to the cab as he was marched up the front stairs of the hotel, as did one of the suited men. He grabbed the man by the shoulder and forced him on, causing the nervous man to jump, resulting in a sharp pain shooting through her head. Before she could gather herself for attempting reconnection, the man had already been guided into the front lobby of the Kensington Hotel. _Drat_, she thought. _And there disappears the peaceful solution_.

_(Ground Control, this is Major Tom. The target has entered the building and out of my range. And next time, it's your turn at street duty, Kurt.)_

After a few seconds, a voice echoed in reply. Needless to say the voice was unheard by the old woman at the table next to her, who Jane would late claim displayed a striking resemblance to Mother Theresa .

She didn't.

_(Yeah, I sort of noticed the band of eerie looking, overdressed men walking past me. Thanks.)_

She snubbed out her cigarette.

_(And Jean, no one appreciates being forced to listen to disembodied whining for three straight hours.)_

* * *

He had already followed them from the lobby, keeping his distance as he carried his empty suitcase behind him. Thankfully, the target arrived just before the receptionist called security. _Apparently standing in a lobby mind your own business is now a crime, _he thought, recalling how the blond (and a little bit too chubby for his tastes) receptionist had finally had enough of his excuse of still deciding whether or not he'd be booking a room; only five minutes ago, she had threatened having him forcibly removed from the hotel. While she had her back turned he disappeared, before appearing again across the room, picked up his suitcase, before appearing outside of the breakfast room and her view. As the five men walked by him, he had caught a glimpse of the man who, by the fact he clearly looked like he had far less of a rod stuck up his ass, he deduced was the target.

_(Don't do anything I wouldn't, Kurt. You just need to follow get their room number.)_

_Christ, I know I'm new but this is ridiculous. _He followed them down the hall from the breakfast room. _It's not like I'm a fucking psycho like Zippo_. As he shadowed them down to the elevators, he decided there and then that he missed the smell of hotels. He noted that the bellboy merely stepped aside as they passed, not even offering his assistance. Now that he thought about it, they hadn't even checked in at the front desk. _I guess they already sorted out all their travel arrangements. _He watched as they pulled the man into the small metallic room and grimaced as the elevator door closed, cutting them out of view.

_Great, I guess this is where it's up to me_. He let five ten seconds pass, before glancing to the stairwell, then to the velvet carpet of the lobby and then to the ceiling. He noticed a small crack and thought of hairy snakes. _Five feet of thick flooring. Just five feet of thick flooring._ He shut his eyes, whispered a prayer and then felt himself fall for half a second. He caught his breath after hearing his feet hit the floor. _Ok, four feet of thick flooring._ When he opened his eyes there was no longer a crack running across the ceiling. He glanced around him at an empty hallway of room numbers and waited another five seconds, before focusing on the ceiling and closing eyes once more. He repeated this same procedure until he was on the fourth floor. The group of men were walking down the corridor, until reaching a room a dozen or so away from the elevator doors. They didn't even pay him a glance, but he couldn't blame them for that; who would pay a second look to someone who could double for an even less attractive Javis Cocker in _tweed_? They forced the small man inside, before closing the door. _They've locked it_, he noted. He made his way down the corridor and pressed his ear against the door.

Shouting, and the occasional sound of a heavy thump. He could hear a man crying inside. _They're beating the poor fella, _he thought._ These guys clearly aren't the best of friends_. He closed his eyes and tried to picture the scene; two man in clear proximity to the weeping man, one interrogating while the other continued beating him. He couldn't get a good idea where the remaining man was. Standing around the room somewhere? Did they have weapons in hand? _What if I say I just can't do it? Too many different layers in the wall? Wrong temperature in the room? The room already hit its limit of white, suspicious-looking males? It's not like there's an "All you need to know about teleportation" guide those guys can read at home._

_(Kurt, what's going on?) _

_(They're in room 154 Jane. I guess it's all depends on me now.)_

_(Yep. Good luck, friend!)_

_Great_. He breathed in and closed his eyes. The hostage was maybe five feet away. If there was a slight miscalculation, the resulting panic among the suits should give him enough time to grab the hostage. _This is just great_. He imagined the room. He imagined the position of the three men in the centre. He imagined himself beside the target. _I really wish I wasn't such a vital part of the team_, he thought, before disappearing.

* * *

_(Kurt? Did you get him out? Give me a reply already so my heart can have a rest)_

She raced up the stairs, past the second floor.

_(Kurt, please just tell me what's going on.)_

She glanced frantically across the both sides of the corridor.

145. 146. 148.

153.

_Bingo._

_(Jean, there's been a slight problem.)_

_(What is it, Kurt? Have you got the target out?)_

_(No, but I'm having a good chat with his friends in here. Although I'm getting some bad vibes from the one holding his gun to my head.)_

* * *

"Who sent you, you mutant _shit? Who do you work for?!" _asked said one, holding his gun to his head.

"Would you believe me if I said I was freelance?"

That comment earned him a fist to his stomach, courtesy of goon holding him back by his arms. He gasped in pain and fell to the floor, unable to breath. As he tried to catch his breath, he lifted his head back from the floor and looked at the target. _The idiot ran away from me!_ He bowed his head again, struggling for air. _Surely anything suddenly appearing is better than his current predicament!_ He made eye contact with the man, who uttered a short gasp of his own and cowered even further into the corner he fallen into. The man bending his arms behind his back tightened his grip in response.

"Caught your breath yet, scum? What do they call you, freak? The _Comedian_?" He grabbed him by his hair and pulled his head up, pressing his own gun into his forehead.

_When I'm in these sort of situations, why is pissing of the guy with a gun always my move?_ He wondered where the hell the other two were. Maybe if he kept him talking, he'd buy them enough time to save his life_. And like hell they owe it to me, I didn't even sign up for this mission_.

"Who _sent_ you?! Speak you mutie _freak_!" _Oh, that's what the accent is. These guys are American, of all things. _He glanced around the room; besides the two men keeping him at gun point, the remaining three had scattered around the room, guns all drawn on him. _It'll be fine Kurt, they said. You just need to save some Russian from a few bad people, they said._

"Hey man, I'm just room service. Was about to tell you what time the restaurant opens tonight, when you guys started waving guns in my face."

A sharp pain. He vomited.

_(Kurt, what's going on in there? Did you get out? All I can hear is shouting.)_

He gasped for air and found himself choking. He tried to spit out the remainder of the sick, but felt his mouth roughly gripped by the two hands of the man who had just butted him with the side of his gun.

_(Kurt?!)_

"Taste good, freak? I hope so, because if you don't start talking I'll make sure you go out choking on your own fucking shit!"

_(I just fucking puked on myself, Jean! That's how well it's going! I didn't even sign up for this one and here I am, eating my own fucking vomit!)_

"Now, nod if you're ready to speak. We wouldn't want to see you… Matt, why are you fucking around with the lock? Get back ove-"

For a second, Kurt Wagner thought the man had been generous again with his gun. A roar swept through his ears. He screamed. No, that wasn't him; he had too much of a mouthful to have screamed. He found himself falling to his side, retching the remainder of his previous session onto the floor. After catching his breath, his face still against the soiled carpet, he glanced across the scene in front of him.

"Put the gun down and you won't be joining your friend on the pavement, asshole!"

It took him a good few seconds to register that he was even in the same room. While the left half of the room looked as well-kept as you could expect from a five star hotel, the right side looked like it had fallen victim to a half-hearted wrecking ball. Floor boards were now uprooted and the bed was now, at most, child sized. The man who Kurt has spent the last few minutes befriending was nowhere to be seen, although the newly installed collapsed wall that now linked the room to the high-street probably explained why. Before he had time to come to term with this new development, he felt himself pulled roughly to his feet.

* * *

"I said put the gun down! No one else needs to get hurt!"

_Man, you must look real tough now Jean Grey, _she thought, her arm pointed at the remaining thug in front of her; her hand outstretched. _He would have to be blind not to notice how badly you're shaking right now._ She forced such thoughts from her mind. The man had grabbed Kurt in the confusion and now had his arm around his neck, his spare hand gripping a gun to his head. If there was any chance that both Kurt and she were leaving this room walking, she needed to force her mind to be calm.

"What the fuck have you _done? _What did you do to _Matt_? Where the _hell_ is Kurt?!"

_Calm it, Jean. _

_Calm it._

"No one else has to get hurt here, friend. Just let him go and we'll let you walk away. You can go back home to Washington and see Angie again. You were going to propose to her this month, weren't you?"

"Get out my head, mutant bitch! Get out my head before I put a bullet in yours!"

There was no way she could pull the same treatment on him as she had his friend. Making the guy who was currently slumped on the floor behind her unlock the door was easy; she had time to prepare herself and his mental state was perfectly calm; she had easily managed to jump into his mind.

This was different. The man with a gun to Kurt's head was hysterical. _She_ was hysterical. He would immediately notice if she tried to pry herself into his head. _He'd have all the warning to end at least one live in this room_, she thought. _I've got to find a way to talk him down._

"Listen. You've got a great girl at home to go back to. You said so yourself only earlier this evening. All you have to do is…"

A sizzling sound.

She realised she was now talking to an empty room.

* * *

He didn't know who had started screaming first.

As they felt themselves freefalling, they had clutched onto each other like two love-struck teens dry humping. He felt his throat throbbing from the screaming and the cold air.

The cold air. He struggled to calm himself. After a few seconds, he had forced an end to his own screaming. He began focusing on the task at hand and, after a few moments, began screaming again. He desperately clutched to the other man, their arms embracing each other body as they fell hundreds and hundreds of feet.

_No_, he thought. _Now's not the time to be making a new friend_. He tried to squirm his way out the man's hold. He tried to look towards the ground, but the icy blast of air that hit his eyes forced them closed. He lifted his right leg between the two of them and, lowering his head into the man's shoulder, bit in. The man jerked back, his arms around him loosening, giving Kurt just the space he needed. He straightened his leg and, with that single jerk, sent the man flying off him. He twisted his body around in mid-air until he was falling chest first, opening his eyes once more.

What greeted him was the sight of a mass concrete metropolis. Had he not already had emptied the contents of his stomach, he would've probably wretched again from the sight.

He focused his gaze directly downwards, forcing his eyes to remain open. He could see what looked like a church, with a large roof besides it. _My roof? No, any roof will do._ He shut his eyes and imagined that roof. He imagined himself on that roof. He imagined himself on that roof, his face against its concrete. _Hairy snakes_, he thought. _Hairy snakes._

He found himself on a roof, his face pressed against the concrete.

* * *

She had tried to establish a psychic link with Kurt, but the unintelligible screaming that poured into her brain sent a bolt of pain through her head. She ran her hands up her face and clenched. She tried to settle the pain in her mind, the pain that had sent her to her knees. _My head feels like it's being filled with concrete_, she thought. _It's going to just go pop and I'll go insane._ She bit her lower lip. The sensation of agony felt like it was spreading through her brain like a drop of blood in water, slowly making its way through every valley and crevice.

_You're in control Jean. Shut out the voices. You're in-_

A click, then the feeling of cold metal being pressed against her head. _Oh, this must be that Matt guy. How silly, I forgot all about him._

"Where are they, cutie? What happened to my partners?"

The gun was pressed even further against the back of her head. _This is how I die then. At least Kurt might've got out safe. _She closed her eyes. _At least the headache's gone._

"I'm going to count to five and if you don't tell me what happened here, I'm… I'm… Oh."

She felt the gun sliding across the back of her head and heard a thud besides her. She could smell cooked meat and an image of a long-forgotten roast dinner with her parents quickly flashed through her mind.

"Well Jeanie, I'd be lying if I said this couldn't have gone a bit _smoother_."

She slowly opened her eyes and turned to the direction the heavy thud had come from. On the ground, laying face first into the carpet, was the remaining American agent; the one who was thinking of his kids back home just before she had made him unlock the door. His eyes had rolled almost entirely into the back of his head and his mouth was wide open; drool slowly spreading into the carpet. Smoke slowly rose from a burning hole in the back of his head. _Ok, I definitely don't fancy another cigarette now. _

"Weren't you supposed to hold back unless any more suits appeared? Not that I'm complaining, _John._"

She felt a hand gently grip her shoulder. She grabbed the arm it was attached to and pulled herself back onto her feet. She turned to face her saviour; a blond man, in his early twenties, with unruly curvy blond hair. He wore the smuggest smile Jean thought she had ever seen in her life. He closed his eyes and breathed out a small laugh.

"Sorry Cap'n, but after half the content of a room landed in front of the hotel, I used my intuition to deduce you needed some help." He closed the lid of his lighter and glanced around the room; she followed his gaze. Collapsed against the wall, shaking nervously as they spoke, was the Russian. On meeting their gaze he let out a small squeak, before futilely trying to cram himself even further into the only corner which still remained on the other side of the room.

"Well Red, I'll leave you to handle the mark while I see if our little Jewish friend is still ticking." The blond man made his way towards the door, turning his head to address her as he left the room. "You've always been better at these public relation things anyhow."

She sighed, a smile crossing her face. She closed her eyes and breathed. _No headache. No migraine. Perfect_, she thought. She jumped on the spot, before opening her eyes and slowly making her way across the room, carefully stepping over the body of the man she assumed again was Matt. The man began pleading in Russian, clawing at the wall as she approached. It was now dark outside and rain began seeping in through broken wall from the high-street. As she arrived, she closed her eyes and in her mind began focusing on the panicked man at her feet, doing her best to spread a sense of serenity through his mind. She heard his breathing begin to slow and, opening her eyes, bent down to face level with the man, placing her hand between her thighs. She offered him her most cheerful grin.

"I know it looks bad, but would you believe me if I said we were the _good guys_?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"The head of state has called for me by name. But I don't have time for him" - Radiohead, _Lucky_

* * *

"Yes Mr Anderson, I can assure you I'm taking this completely serious. It's your suggestion of any manner of subterfuge on our part I find nonsensical."

Looking out over the Thames, a man named Patrick Summers listened to two of the most powerful men in the world argue like children.

"Don't bullshit me, Xavier. My men were in the country for less than an hour. Are you really trying to suggest that your _old friend_ just struck gold by luck?"

He sighed. _This entire conversation is pointless_, thought the Scotsman. The details surrounding this apparent crisis hadn't been made clear to him yet, but he knew what it would all would lead to. Within maybe twelve hours, he would be asked to send the agents serving under him into some new warzone.

"We're perfectly aware of how worrying the timing of this all is. But I think we'd both agree that MI5 would benefit in no way by leaking information to a known terrori-"

"You know fully well that's not what I'm trying to suggest, Xavier. Despite our, well…" The man on the screen paused. He took a clear moment to find the right word. "…d_ifferences,_ I know you're equally aware just how badly this situation could damage relations between both our nations. And that's not even going into the likely Russian fallout."

_Russia_. Patrick's eyes followed a small barge makes its way up the River. _I don't think anyone's going to shed a tear if this blows up in their face_.

"I know _perfectly_ well what you're suggesting, senator. And it's not only absurd, but obscene. Every serviceman in this initiative has been handpicked by myself and other top government officials. I find your implication insulting, to say the least."

"I'm sorry if that's the case, Xavier. But I've been dealing with your kind for many years and perhaps the most important lesson I've learned is that you're all far more likely to side with your own than any _human_ government. Either way, us in Washington we'll be keeping our hands clear of this affair. It's up to your so-called _initiative_ now to deal with this."

The screen went black. _Even the most powerful men in the world are afraid of being in the same room as Charles Xavier_, he thought.

Behind him, the wheelchair bound man closed his eyes and sighed. He was bald, in his mid-fifties and, at least in Summers' opinion, the last chance in the world for both mutants _and_ humans. A twenty-something year old women made her way from the side of the room and gripped the handles of his wheelchair, pulling him around to face Patrick. Patrick turned in reply and was greeted by a warm smile from the man.

"Please deal with this for me, Scott. I think Miss Munroe will be a capable choice to head the operation in Russia. You may pick the remaining members of the task force and, of course, all files related to this situation will be made open for you."

A frown crossed Summers' face. "Charles, surely we're not seriously going to aid the Russians of all people here. I think the thought of fighting our own kind to protect Russian interests will make a lot of the team ill."

"I think that's a remarkably ignorant comment, Scott." Xavier gripped the arms of his chair, a glare forming on his face against his subordinate. "You know what's at stake here so please, if only for the next twenty-four hours, put your childish pride aside and do your duty. And from here on out, we're operating strictly on a codename basis till this crisis is resolved. Please make sure your team is aware of that, Cyclops."

The woman wheeled him away from Summers, pushing him towards the door. As she went to open it for the two of them, the man turned his head around and spoke once more over his shoulder.

"By the way, I'm of course aware of the personal nature this mission holds for you. I just want you to know that I too share that dilemma. Now, Miss MacTaggert, do you mind escorting me to my vehicle? I believe I've left my driver waiting far too long as it is…"

* * *

"Do you really think there could be a mole in the Initiative, Mr Xavier?"

They had left the main building, leaving Summers alone to deal with arranging the mission in Russia. Wheeling Xavier through the underground car park, lit only by pale orange lights on the ceiling, she finally found the courage to speak her mind.

"I don't find the idea that someone is being manipulated too far-fetched. But the very idea that someone is willing acting as a double agent is downright absurd. Especially considering that I cross paths with most of our Sentinels on a daily basis. Trust me, if there was a spy, I'd know."

"Just like that? Simply being in their presence would be enough?"

"Miss MacTaggert, I can't begin to describe how humorous it is being around someone desperately trying to keep something a secret when you're a telepath. They practically just scream out loud their dirty laundry, if you don't mind my crassness."

She bit her lip as they approached the parked vehicle, its headlights on and waiting. It had been mere days since she had been assigned as his personal aid. That is, that was the official title. Both her superiors and Xavier were aware that her new role was to keep a constant _human_ presence around the man.

"Mr Xavier, could I beg you a favour?"

"Of course, my dear. And please, Charles is more than fine."

"Could you read my mind?"

They stopped before his car, the chauffer already holding the door open for him. A silence followed, broken only slightly by the sound of distant car engines.

"Miss MacTaggert, I want you to understand that I hold no sense of mistrust towards you. I know that your presence is merely a formality decided by people with far more expensive tastes in government-paid vehicles than myself."

"Please, Charles. I'd like us to start our time together on a transparent understanding, if you know what I mean."

He nodded and wheeled himself around to face her. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. _This is it_, she thought. _I'm seeing perhaps the most powerful mutant in this country using his most famous ability. _After a couple of seconds, he opened his eyes again and gave her a warm smile.

"You passed with flying colours, Moira. Now if you don't mind, could you assist me with getting into my lift for this evening?"

* * *

He poured a generous guess of two shots into the glass and took a sip, before pouring even more into it. Xavier had left three hours ago and already a private, unmarked jet was flying over France and heading East, carrying the most unusual passengers. In forty minutes it would set down in Cherkavi, Russia. Within two hours, its crew would be approaching a small Russian military base, of course unannounced.

He took a sip and looked outside his office at the Thames once more, now darkened by its reflection of the night's sky and marked by orange lampposts. He wondered about the barge he had seen earlier. He wondered if he had chosen the right agents for tonight. The right people.

He wondered if he would see each one of those people again.

He took a gulp of the whisky before turning around and approaching his desk. He wondered if his collegues in the service knew about his drinking problem; that he never spent nights like this at all sober. He wondered if the thought had crossed his mind when in Xavier's company. If so, he had turned a blind eye on it so far. _Probably for the best, _he thought._ Any pity on the matter from him would probably be the blow that drives me over the edge_.

Setting his whiskey glass down on the desk in front of him, Summers' once more browsed through the documents laid before him which, just like Xavier had promised, had been made unclassified to him just after he had left. Most were clearly British in nature, detailing both the suspicions and evidence of some manner of Russian subterfuge, while the others, based on the nature of the language, were clearly from their so-called friends in the CIA. _And the truth will set you free,_ he thought before his eyes were drawn to another document, set next to a bottle of Glenmorangie. This one was clearly Russian in nature; a report made by their missing whistle-blower, who should've been handed over to their custody by Americans agents earlier that day. _I really hope Vlad's enjoying his stay here so far_. He picked up the document with one hand, freeing his other for his drink. His eyes once more glanced its heading: _Classified: The Weapon X Project. _


	3. Chapter 3 - Intro

Chapter 3, an introduction

"And all the roads we have to walk are winding. And all the lights that light the way are blinding" - Oasis, _Wonderwall_

* * *

_In 1964, Britain gained a sudden foothold in the Cold War conflict by incorporating homo superiors into the ranks of their secret services. Dubbed "mutants" by the press, they were often picked for dire missions where normal agents would be considered out of their depth; missions were "human" costs were to be avoided._

_Putting their lives on the line time and time again, two men became notable as they rose through the ranks – _

_Charles Xavier, a young British mutant recruited from Oxford, with the power to read and govern other minds. _

_And __Erik Lehnsherr, recruited by the British to serve as a sleeper agent within the Eastern Berlin KGB._

_Given the codenames "Professor" and "Tutor", these two exceptional men gave blood and body for their country._

_However, as the Western world watched as the East slowly began to collapse, it began casting a dubious eye on its previous saviours. Their achievements in the field only made their masters fear their powers and soon the world saw a new threat arise in the collapse of the Soviet Union._

_Russia was the first nation to make mutancy illegal. Spurned by the damage done to them by homo superiors, it devoted itself to a silent genocide of its mutant population, condemning those who carried the mutant gene to gulags and barbaric experiments._

_America followed suit and, in 1992, made mutancy a federal crime._

_Only Britain remains a relative safe haven for mutant-kind, but even that is in jeopardy; the Conservative government, known for its sympathy on the mutant matter, is facing political exile in the wake of the rising New Labour, who share America's hard-line stance on mutants. _

_With the 1997 election over the horizon, Charles Xavier is hard pressed to make his SENTINAL Initiative, a newly created department in the secret services host to both human and mutant agents, a success. Hoping to show that humanity and mutant-kind can stand side by side in this post-Cold War world, "Professor" is running out of time to make his case to the British public._

_Meanwhile, cynical of his good friend's Initiative, Lehnsherr has gone into hiding, along with several mutant defectors who seek to flee from the gaze of the British government. Declared terrorists by the UK Parliament, they crusade for mutant's across the isles, forcing Xavier into conflict with those he previously counted as students, as well as his former ally "Tutor"._

_As the 1997 time bomb ticks on, only these two men have the power to possibly change the fate of their kind. _


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"I don't need to sell my soul, he's already in me" - The Stone Roses, _I Wanna Be Adored_

* * *

"You're wasted at that carnival their running at _Strawberry Fields_, you know that right?" he said, in thick Russian. "My god, what I'd do to be working with someone like you Miss Munroe." He took another sip of his coffee and looked out of the window. She followed his gaze and glanced across the empty highstreet. Rain fell onto the pavement, filling the silent void. _The rain here tastes different_, she thought. _This is Russian rain. It's far heavier._

"Well Boris, we both know that's impossible, considering the current climate here. To be frank, I think I think I'd be lynched the moment I stepped a foot into the Kremlin."

"My dear Miss Munroe, that's all changing now. Give it ten years, will be the most liberal nation in the world!" He leant back and bellowed a heartfelt laugh. "Even the most hardline of our officials would be bewitched the moment they laid eyes on you!" He was a portly man, who took his coffee with a drop of whisky. _American whisky_, she noted.

"I'm flattered Mr Barr, truly. Perhaps I'll make a mental note of it." She gave him a wink. _That'll get his blood boiling, _she thought. Boris Barr was a portly man, with one arm and fewer remaining hairs on his head. He had been her contact within the Russian circle for years now. Never giving up too much, never asking for too much. Not a mole, but a half-hearted opportunist. They'd trade information and tidbit, all approved by their seniors, in exchange for similar information from the other side. Most of it was American related; what the British knew about the Americans and, in exchange, perhaps a little line of Russian intelligence.

But this was a peculiar little situation the two of them found each other in, as they took turns sipping their coffee on that dreary Russian afternoon. They sat facing each other not as allies or enemies, but a bizarre mixture of the two. What the Americans had meant to hand over to the Initiative yesterday was a Russian turncoat; a scientist involved in the Russian military science department. For whatever reason, he had turned to the Americans due to fearing for his life if he remained in Russia but, not wanting to dirty their hands and not holding any real interest in what he had to report, the Americans had turned him back over to the MI6. However, the meeting at the South Kensington Hotel yesterday had been botched before the exchange could take place. Now, I certain "Tutor" had key information that the secret services rather he didn't.

What both Munroe and Barr understood was that an equal deal had to be sorted out. It was quite simple, if allowed to be simplified; the vague information that British services had gained was on a Russian military experiment dubbed "Weapon X". Although the nature of the project was up in the air at the moment, it was clear those involved felt like they had made some manner of breakthrough. Which of course, lit the warning flags for their most personal enemy; Russia's own security service, who would be damned if they allowed the military to gain some new advantage over them. However, the Russian military development department was utterly off-limit for the country's own security service, so Barr's department needed a third party to sort the issue out. And so MI6, who had blown the existence of the project to Barr's department, were allowed to act to detain those involved; as long as any information gained was then relayed back to Moscow.

"Would you care for a smoke, Miss Munroe?" asked Barr, holding out a pack of Benson & Hedges Gold. She took one and slowly placed it between her lips, making sure he was watching. She pretended to look desperately in her suit pocket for a lighter before he offered her his own. "Now then, I believe it's time to get to business. Our own intelligence has pinpointed today's little exchange at a small apartment just down on Red Street, here." He passed her a small note, with an address and room number writ down on it. "Obviously, we won't be getting involved if things go sour. Nor will we admit any involvement if one of your operatives are caught."

She slid the note into her inner suit pocket and finished her cigarette. "Thank you, Boris. Obviously we'll be sure to slip you guys something in a few months," she took a sip and finished her coffee "and maybe the next time I'm called her on duty, we can meet up for a drink. I'll leave you to figure out which bar." She gave him a wink, before slowly easing herself to her feet.

"Miss Munroe, for you, I'll treat you to one of the finest resteraunts Mother Russia has to offer. And if you guys finally catch up to him, do send "Tutor" my regards." Barr pointed to the stump where his left one arm once was, before replying with a wink in tow. "And of course, to dear Charles Xavier as well."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Drying up in conversation, you will be the one who cannot talk. All your insides fall to pieces, you just sit there wishing you could still make love." - Radiohead, _High and Dry_

* * *

Divorce; a two syllable word that always struck Summers as outrageously dark. Just two little syllables mouthed, conveying so much disappointment and misery that he couldn't help but refill his whisky glass. He looked across his dark office room, the blinds raised down, unable to gather the strength to raise himself to his feet and undim the lights. Shiny Mahogany and expensive furniture, the best a government employed agent could get. Divorce; he couldn't even bring himself to speak the word out loud.

But then again, who was there to say it to? Xavier, the so-called "Professor", was attending some fancy government party, rubbing sides with the hypocrites who wasted their money into the initiative Summers served. Monroe, his normal drinking companion, was out in Russia. He had sent her to Russia. He had sent her once again to risk life and limb for a cause he found himself placing less and less faith in by the day. "I'm a stockbroker of lives." he declared out loud, to no one in particular. Hank? He haven't seen him since Xavier talked him into that godforsaken project at the Newford Plant. He took another gulp and grimaced at the taste. Madelyne?

_Madelyne._ The memory of her crossed across his mind from the last time they had met. Her face, giving him a look he had never seen from her before. A look that, by its very definition, he knew he would never see again. And the snow, he remembered the snow. He swigged back the rest of his whisky and poured himself another glass. _Well, it's whatever o'clock in Moscow_. He had left her a divorcee at the age of only 29. _Divorce_. He had allowed her to waste half her life so far on him.

He looked through the last transcript he had received from the agents in Cherkavi. Munroe had finished her meeting with Boris Barr and was approaching the destination with that Pryde girl. Christ, how old was she; eighteen? Nineteen? Had he really sent a teenager on a mission into _fucking Russia?_ The thought disgusted him. Either way, he had no more part to play in the events unfolding in Russia at the moment. And so, he was left alone in his office, waiting for the call that whatever Weapon X was, it had been obtained. No Xavier. No Madelyne.

No Jean.

Jean Grey. The red headed nineteen year old telepath. No, she'd be at least twenty one by now. Twenty one to his thirty nine. Far too young to have pursued. Far too young to leave his wife for. And for what? She had left while he had stayed. She choose the "Tutor" over the "Professor". Over him. He had left his wife for a girl nearly half his age, only for her to leave him when it came to pick sides. And he had picked Xavier, the man who now spent his days balancing brownnosing politicians and engaging in shady deals to supposedly protect their kind. A man who had raised him like a son. He found the strength to raise him for the sofa and immediately realised just how drunk he was, the room shaking around him. He closed his eyes and placed his hand over his face, trying to calm the rotating room around him. _Jean_. He wondered if she was in Russia too, following the same lead that he had sent Monroe and that young girl on. That nineteen year old girl.

He groaned and stumbled into his bathroom. How many men had offices with bathrooms included? But then again, he did spend most of his nights in this building, sleeping in a futon when he was sober enough and the sofa otherwise. He flicked the light switch and winced in pain at the sudden bright light. _My eyes hurt_. He stumbled into the side of the room, his knee hitting against the toilet. He gasped in pain. He raised his arms and held his hand hands against the wall, pushing himself back to his feet. He felt like he was going to vomit in the bright light. He closed his eyes and, with a great deal of guess work, made his way to the sink. _My eyes hurt_. He held himself up against the counter, ready to vomit in the sink. But it never came. Instead, a further pain spread out across his closed eyes. He felt like his very eyes were about to melt. He opened his eyes to look into the mirror and saw only red. A blaze of red. After a few seconds the intense pain left and, as he slowly regained his sight, all that remained was a slight burning sensation in his eyes. He looked at where a mirror once stood on the wall, where now only metal liquid slowly dripped from the wall and into the sink.

_I really need to stop drinking._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"They brought in the CIA, the tanks and the whole marines to blow me away, to blow me sky high" - Radiohead, _The Bends_

* * *

She made her way down the street, unbothered by the rain. She pulled the collar of her trenchcoat to her face and, with her face covered, spoke. "Cyclops, are you reading me? I'm approaching the building." She walked further down the road, past grey apartments and liquor stores. The street was almost deserted, save for a woman pushing an empty pram on the other side of the street and a man in a suit standing against a white delivery fan. She walked past the man, before leaning against the van next to him. She looked up at the apartment in front of them.

"Where's Hitchcock? He's not fucking around in some park again is he?"

"Nah, I got him to stop that a couple of hours ago. He's currently giving us survaliance on these guys. Two of them already in the building, room thirty two on the fifth floor. See that fire escape just there? Will lead you right outside it." The man who spoke looked no more than twenty, with delicately combed blonde hair and a thick Scouser accent. After speaking he leant back, uncrossed his hands and placed them in the pocket of his coat.

"Civvies?"

"None. A gas leak was reported in the building yesterday. These guys definitely have no idea anyone knows about their little exchange, right?"

"Of course not. Only the top brass and us know about this."

"Well eitheway, here comes the goods." He nodded in the direction of the apartment, a dozen or so blocks down the street. A black van parked in front of it and the two men, of course suited, left the front. They walked to the back of the van and opened the rear door.

"And here's…" Monroe muttered under her breath, "…is our Weapon X."

* * *

He had been back on the couch for thirty minutes or so, having drunk four pints of water in the meanwhile. After the final pint, he had waited by the receiver equipment set up by his desk. After hearing Monroe come through, he had moved to his desk chair. Summer's raised the mic to his mouth and spoke.

"Storm, what's going on over there? Do you have visual?"

He waited for a response. For a good while, there was only silence. He eyes the bottle of whisky again, before forcing the thought from his head. _She's good. She won't mess this up._

"Cyclops, this is Storm. The mark has arrived. Shadowcat has already entered the building. I'll enter by the front entrance and cause a distraction, giving her enough time to nab our _treasure_. Permission to proceed?"

"Granted, Storm. Good luck."

They needed it. If this went awry, it would stretch out far beyond the corridors of Strawberry Fields. First of all, the American fallout from botching the mission; they had handed over the information and so far all the SIS had managed was losing their source to an outside faction. Then of course, would be the inevitable Russian frenzy. The department that Barr's served would go hysterical if they were in anyway linked to the events currently unfolding in that shit stain of a Russian town.

So he waited. He waited two minutes and checked his watch. After the next two he checked his Rolex again and thought about another drink. After another two, he put the idea behind him. _I wasn't meant for this kind of thing. _His heart raced throughout, his mind turning to thoughts of Monroe. To thoughts of that teenager who was currently within twenty feet of Russian secret military men. To the Professor. And of course, to Jean. After the final two minutes, he broke.

"Hello, anyone? What's going on down there?"

No reply. That could mean anything. They might not have even started yet. It had been less than ten minutes, so why was he panicking so badly? He shouldn't bother them , considering the situation they were in. He should just leave them to it and wait patiently.

"Hello?! Someone give me an update!"

Static. Someone's microphone was clearly turned on in response. He drew in his breath. After ten seconds, a voice replied.

"Scotty? Can you hear me man?"

"Codenames, idiot! What's going on there, Iceman?"

"Jesus fuck, the building just _exploded_! The entire floor they were on just went up in fucking flames! I think Monroe just got _shot_!"

* * *

"Jesus Christ, John! What the hell did you just do?!"

They stood alone, in the remains of a charred and still burning room. The rain began to pour in through the rubble and Jean was reminded of the Kensington Hotel. Behind them, the room was unscathed. In front of them was something out of a warzone.

"I just sent a little spark off in every radiator on this floor and multiplied the explosion by five. It's cool though – whatever this Weapon X is, it's in the room behind us."

She looked behind her and saw that he was right; there was a room, the door closed, behind them. In the state the apartment was now in, she couldn't even guess what sort of room it was, let alone what the wreck they were now in used to be.

"Either way, I'm going to make sure I hit all of them. By the way, I'm pretty sure I head a gun shot from downstairs. You get grab whatever's in there and run, I'll make my own way out."

"You know, I was a lot happier _not_ knowing what burnt flesh smelled like before I met you."

He smirked, pulled up his hood, and made his way through the wreckage and out of sight.

Left alone, she sighed; did she really need to keep letting herself be dragged out to backwater places like this, to babysit psychopaths like _that_? She coughed; the smoke was beginning to fill what was left of the room. Her hair was already dripping from the rain. She turned and then jumped, hearing a click behind her head after taking only two steps.

"Stop right there! You're not going anywhere, ok?"

_How the hell did she get the slip on me?_ A female voice, quite young. _Definitely not Russian_. She raised her arms to the air and focused her mind for a mental barrage. _Why didn't she just shoot me? She's clearly far from the top of her class_. She closed her eyes.

"D-Drop any weapons you have and… and… oh."

She heard a thud and, turning around, stole a glance at the hired gun she had just placed under deep slumber. She had collapsed on the floor, laying on her side. Shoulder length brown hair, clearly still a teenager. _A teenager? Here? Charles, what are you playing at_? After some hesitation, she decided she couldn't leave the girl in a slowly burning room for the Russians to find so, after cursing herself, lugged her over her shoulder and carried her to the door. Hand over the handle, she prepared herself for whatever existed in the room beyond.

She entered the room, still carrying the girl, and grasped for a light switch until the room was lit by a single dim bulb that hung from a mould infested ceiling. The room was empty, except for what looked like some strange formation of… _something_, wrapped heavily in plastic. _Wait, what's up with the sack on the top_? _Wait…_

She sat the limp agent on the floor and made her way slowly to the object on the other side of the room. The object that those American in South Kensington and these Russians had died for. The object that _she_ had help kill for. _I guess at long last, here's Weapon X._ She stopped at it and sat down on her knees, eyelevel to the burlap sack. She wondered if she should just wait for the others. If she should just leave this supposed weapon of mass interest alone. _But the way it's positioned._ She reached out and grabbed the burlap sack. _There's no way it could be…_

A person.

A _girl_.

Clearly heavily sedated and unconscious, but a girl nonetheless. And young; she reckoned at most sixteen. Her hair was long and unkept. And _white_. Her hair looked like it had been bleached. As she gazed at the unconscious girl, she realised she had found Weapon X.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"We're trash, you and me. We're the litter on the street. We're the lovers on the street." - Suede, _Trash  
_

* * *

She decided against probing her unconscious mind. She had tried speaking to her, seeing if she could wake her, but clearly she was under some heavy sedation. The girl was, for whatever reason, wrapped entirely in plastic and until she had noticed her breathing, Jean had seriously thought she was a corpse. Normally, a sleeping mind was the easiest to slip into (although it would be very easy to end up unconscious herself is she lingered too long) but she hardly dare risk it while she had no real idea what sort of tranquiliser had been used to put her in that state. Jean had once, just out of perverse curiosity, slipped herself into a man's mind at a rave when she was younger, long before she had met both Professor and Tutor, only to end up being carried home by her then-friends. The man in question turned out to be high as a kite on heroin.

Still, she found herself concerned for the girl before her. She had crouched down in front of her, trying to discern her condition. She really must only be a teenager. Jean looked over her shoulder at the door she had come through minutes before, smoke slowly making its way through from the ruined room beyond, leaving her wondering just how bad the fire that idiot of a colleague had set. In her mind, Jean could clearly imagine the building collapsing, burying both herself and this girl with it. And then there were the other equally possible threats out there right now; the Professor and Strawberry Fields must've predicated that they would make a move, undoubtedly having been made aware that they had snatched away the Russian. It was very likely, in Jean's mind anyway, that the two of them had stepped into a trap. If they, at Strawberry Fields, had played their cards right, they might be walking home with both two well-known mutant "terrorists" (the fact that she was regarded as a security threat gave Jean little pleasure, truth be told) and this so-called Weapon X. _Weapon X_. Could this girl really be what the Russians Military was so desperate to hide? What the Americans had risked (and lost, Jean gravely noted) lives to obtain? What the British Secret Service had sent their own agents after? Jean had to get her out of there. The building was on fire and possibly collapsing; she could wait for the deliverymen to arrive. She slowly reached out her hand to the young girls face.

"I wouldn't do that, Jean."

* * *

"Oh Christ, Oh Christ." Robert Drake, better known as Bobby to his friends had watched as his partner was gunned down as she entered the threshold of the apartment building. Had watched as the four story erupted into flames. In short, he had watched as the mission collapsed in on itself, with undoubtedly many careers with it. He had jumped behind the bonnet of the van after Monroe was gunned down and there he had remained for the last five minutes, handgun clasped in his hands and his back against the hood of the vehicle. "Hitchcock? God-fucking-damn it, Hitchock! he shouted into his microphone. "What the hell is your status? It's all going to shit down here, Jesus fucking Christ!" The sound of static in his earpiece, then a voice.

"Iceman, it's me. Are you reading me?" asked a deep voice over the communication equipment.

"I failed English but yes, of course I fucking read you! What's going on?!" His heart was racing. With Monroe down, he was alone. Hitchcock was nowhere close-by to help, and he was alone. He was alone on that Russian street, with the mission collapsing before his very eyes.

"I cannot really say for sure, Iceman. The explosion must've killed the little one I had asked to follow the Russian men." Little one? Oh for fucksake, thought Drake.

"I really can't give two shits about one of your 'little ones' right now, idiot! What the hell am I supposed to do? Monroe's down and I've got no clue what the hell is going on inside!"

"Weather woman is down? That is very sad. Is she dead?" asked the completely monotone voice.

"I've no idea, idiot. I can't even cross the street right now. I have no fucking idea who shot her and where!"

"Please be calm, young iceberg. I will ask my friends to find the information you say is needed."

* * *

The man stumbled against the wall, after frantically twisting his way down the corridor, screaming all the while. Not that Allerdyce could blame him, being engulfed in flames has probably ruined the poor blokes day. He watched as the man writhed against the wall, it's patterned wallpaper burning in long stripes as he slid down against it. The man finally fell silent, his smoking husk slowly bending forwards, until his scorched head fell forward and onto the floor.

He had come across the man, who was reloading his pistol, as he made his way down the first floor hallway and, deciding that he couldn't be bothered to risk the diplomatic route, flicked on his lighter and, putting his full force behind it, sent a wave of flames down the corridor at him. Fortunately, he didn't have to care about property damage today. He began walking down the corridor, the walls burning in sporadic places. Trusting Jean with securing the so-called Weapon X for the Colonel's arrival, he decided to check out the lower floors, making sure they had cleared the complex of any remaining Russians. Their car waited outside, but that means of escape would be rendered useless if there was still some Russian sharpshooter waiting for them outside. He reached the stairwell to the lobby and paused, listening for any sound from the floor below. _Surely this mission isn't going to end on such a dull note? _He flipped the top of his lighter and ran his spare hand through his blonde hair. _Jesus, that'd be such an anti-climax_.

* * *

"So, it's true then Colonel. This girl is the Russian's _Weapon X_?" Before Jean stood a heavy built man in a pale green suit, rendered tight by his physique; a physique rendered even more impressive by his apparent agedness. The man, who stood by the doorway with his bulging arms drooping down by his sides, could be no less than in his mid-fifties. Jean, to whom had never been made partial to his exact age, would guess that was a liberal guess. Between his imposing build and his oiled back, greying black hair, his true age was masked but if she had to guess, she'd expect perhaps sixty-three. Either way, the Colonel's image was a bizarre one, made even more absurd when he opened his mouth and deep Russian accent spilled out.

"That would be correct Miss Jean. She's the ill-gotten result of an experiment designed to eradicate the mutant gene." He didn't turn to face her as he spoke, instead facing straight ahead where the white-haired girl rested. "The embodiment of my nation's desire to see us wiped off the face of this Earth, a romantic might say."

"What do you mean, Mr Nikloaievitch? How the hell can this girl be a _weapon_?"

His lowered his head, his lips forming what could almost be called a smile. "I'm sorry young Miss Jean, but I find such a question spectacularly idiotic. Especially coming from a fellow mutant."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"I'm in a wide open space. It's freezing. You'll never get to heaven with a smile on your face for me." - Mansun, _Wide Open Space_

* * *

"What was the last line you heard from Cherkavi, Scott?"

He stared around at the room around him. Or perhaps it was Xavier's room; they all looked alike anyway. Wood furniture against a backdrop of wooden walls. Sometimes, as he sat at his desk or Xaviar's desk or whoever's desk, he'd almost swear he could smell oak. _Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane_. He wondered; if he flicked his cigarette at the nearest wall, would it catch? Would the wooden panels and the wooden beams burn around them? Would Strawberry Fields just be set alight, to collapse in on itself?

"Scott! Are you listening to me?"

He turned around and studied the face of the man who sat before him, behind an oak desk. Christ, had he always been so old? He had known him well before age had seeped into that visage, flowing through the crevices of wrinkles and laugh lines. Back when he was not Charles Xavier but the Professor, a man who still had that glimmer of smug reassurance and the idea that he could pick up the world and place it in orbit around himself. Maybe that's what had pulled him in, had pulled them _all_ into Xavier's orbit. A smile that seemed to leak some manner of plan for them all. Convincing them that the man behind that grin had some great plan; a future designed with some part for them all to play their separate roles within.

"Yes, Xavier. I'm listening to you," he said, dutifully. _Duty_. He decided there and then that he hated that word.

The old man who may or may not be the Professor but was definitely Charles Xavier sighed. He gripped the sides of his wheelchair and wheeled it around the desk, its motors making a low hum as it moved smoothly across the hardwood floor. He stopped aside Summers, so that their chairs both faced the brown wall behind the desk. He spoke, not turning to him but following his gaze.

"I know Fury has called for a meeting tonight, my own presence has also been requested. And I think that there's still a little space for me to negotiate a leave of absence or – at worst – a demotion of some sort, but I think we need to both consider the worst." _The worst_. What was the worst; finally being allowed to escape this madhouse? Being asked to leave the man who had directed the path of his life since he was a teenager? No, the latter was too much to hope for and he could hardly claim to have no hand in the way things have unravelled. He had been given the same two options as everyone else involved; the Professor or Tutor - or, more aptly in his case, the Professor or Jean.

"And so the Chief of the Security Services wants to make me the scapegoat for this entire mess, right Charles? Despite the fact that I had no hand in the exchange with the Americans. Despite the fact I was only _chosen_ to head this operation in Cherkavi - which is still on-going, I might add. Tell me Xavier, what purpose is all this serving? This "Weapon-X", all this pandering to Yankees – tell me, wasn't this Sentinel Initiative set up to aid the mutant cause? Because from where I'm standing, we've gotten as far away from that initial aim that we can _fucking_ get." He turned around at Xavier and glared. They faced each other for some time, until Summers turned his head away from his mentor. Xavier didn't return his scowl; in fact, there was no malice or anger in his face at all. What Summer's saw in his face was something that made him feel as if a small knive had been driven into his _own_ spine: Care.

"Do you have any smokes on you, Scott?" asked the Professor, after a minute of silence. Summers reached into his pocket and pulled out two Marlboros and handed one to his mentor. He motioned to pass him his lighter, but Xavier pulled out his own. _He doesn't even smoke_, Summers thought to himself. After taking a long drag, Xavier spoke again. "You know, I don't think this is even a smoking-room," he joked, as he turned his shoulders around and looked nervously behind them, feigning worry over being caught. Summers couldn't stop himself from breathing a short, tired laugh. They finished their cigarettes without saying another word to each other, yet it was far from an uncomfortable silence. It was the kind of silence two friends might share when there's no need for anything to be said, in which words unsaid meant far more than anything that could possibly be voiced. Perhaps, in fact, it would be more apt to compare it to the sort of silence that a father and son may share; perhaps.

"The least I could do right now is to give you time to sort out the debris from this disaster, Patrick. I believe I have just the woman who could be the most use to you right now. No, not that silver tongued _femme fatale_ we brought in earlier this year. It's the young lady who was present with us in our conference call yesterday, a Miss Moira MacTaggert. I believe she'll be a massive asset to us in the days to come."

"Noted, Professor. And thank you," said Summers, as he pulled himself out of his chair and made his way to the door. As he opened the door, Xavier called to him.

"If this goes badly, please don't hold it against Nicholas, Scott. Fury's caught between a rock and a hard place yet he's still fighting to keep this department alive. You know how many people in both the SIS and the government would love to find any excuse to declare our initiative a failure. Fury's doing everything he can to make sure they don't win, remember that."

On that note, Summers closed the door behind him.

* * *

Behind the apartments, Jean held the backdoor of the van open. Slowly, the metal colossus before her placed the plastic wrapped girl in the back of it, before turning to Jean. "Where's Allerdyce?" _A good question_, she thought. She hadn't seen him since he had left her in that charred and burning room, when he decided to do a quick sweep of the lower floors. She had tried to contact him mentally, but either he wasn't deliberately ignoring her requests for a status update or he wasn't getting them, which was a very bad sign.

She leant against the side of the car and clutched her head with both hands. _John, where the hell are you? _Her fingers wrestled through her hair, her pixie cut rendered a mess. Normally, she could just contact a mind she knew as well as John's in seconds; she couldn't explain why, but she just seemed to always know exactly where to send her thoughts if in close proximity to him or Kurt. She closed her eyes and focused her mind even harder. Maybe it was simply due to the amount of time she had spent in their company. Already she could feel the migraine setting in. "I can't… I can't quite…"

"Leave him then. We have other priorities to worry about," interrupted the Colonel. She opened her eyes and looked at the Russian, shocked by what he had just said. His skin was still in metal form, its surface reflecting the orange glow from the fires above, even though he had already set the girl down in the back of the van. "Jean, we need to secure both our assists here. Both Weapon X and Xavier's sentinel here. We can't let that blond pretty boy set us back."

"With all respect Colonel, I don't give one. I'm not leaving a friend behind here." _And on that note, I really need to get out more if I count John Allerdyce as a friend_. "You can take the girl back to Tutor, I'll find John."

* * *

He collapsed to his knees. He couldn't keep it up. The ice, his _armour_, melted from his skin. Steam rose the moment he tried to ice-up again. It mixed with the smoke in the air and filled his lungs. He clasped his head in his hands and tried to focus. It was too hot. Too much smoke. Too, too… It was too hot. He tried to focus. He desperately tried to focus in that heat. He had to get out. It couldn't end here, right? Not like this. He was Robert Drake (he was Bobby to his friends) and he was ice. He was the Iceman. He was meant to be something more. Something _supreme_. He was supposed to be some sort of superhero.

"You know, I think the universe or something's at work here. Like, some form of higher power. A man of fire and a man of ice? It's like poetry, don't you think?"

He's still here. The man with the blonde hair and the golden lighter and the fire, oh god the heat it's killing me and I can't, _I CAN'T i CANNOT_

"You alrighty there, ice-ice baby?"

The heat. the HEAT. He gripped his throat. Around him, a ring of fire. It spread around the two of them, melting the very asphalt of the street. Where the walls of flames that circled them settled, the black melted and bubbled and he knew he was melting. He knew he was _melting._

"Should I turn it down a bit now?" said the voice, now even toned and serious. "I'm being serious here, I'd rather we faced each other on equal standing. I mean, that's how elements are. Fire, ice, water and everything in-between. _Equal."_ _He wants me to trust him. He's the devil and I'm going to melt in this hellfire and he wants me to trust him all the while._ He coughed up again, no longer knowing if what came up was water, vomit or something worse. Perhaps it didn't matter; all possibilities pointed to one conclusion – he was _fucked_. He looked up again and, through the water that poured out of his eyes, tried to glance a final look at the man.

* * *

John Allerdyce often wondered if he was affected by some degree of romanticism, the kind that students of Literature often find themselves possessed by. Perhaps it was hugely owed to fiction's obsessive fixation that all things are connected, be it thematically or otherwise. So often in fiction, be it pulp film, novel of supposed great merit or sitcom, there's an obsession that everything has some line of fate running through it, connecting the beginning to an end; a character's actions to a conclusion. Irony and metaphor, he concluded, was the basis for all fiction, knowingly or unknowingly. Due to this, he wondered if he placed far too much significance in this current encounter. A man who wielded flames coming across a man who wielded ice. Of course, the juxtaposition of the two elements was obvious, but Allerdyce wondered if there was actually any meaning at all. Perhaps that was the distinction that needed to be made between reality and fiction; fiction is shaped by a clear creator, who installs each event within with clear meaning. Reality, as far as Allerdyce was concerned, hadn't yet been proven likewise.

Still, John Allerdyce couldn't help but feel a nudging sense of disappointment for the scene before him. When he saw the man dragging some sort of heavy, stiff cargo from the front of the complex, he had naturally tried to burn him alive. Yet the man had fought back and caught the burst of flames he had sent forth with an eruption of ice from the palm of his hand. Momentarily stunned, Allerdyce had allowed him to progress with whatever his cargo was to the centre of the street, before catching up and surrounding both of them in a circle of flames (the burning complex provided him with enough fire to borrow for that). Yet the man who controlled ice quickly succumbed in their duel and Allerdyce found himself wanting for that typical duel of fates so often found in fiction; a fight between titans of nature. But now the man before him (mutant, there was no denying it, as much as Allerdyce wanted to think of their encounter as so much more) was clearly beaten and he was left at a loss for what to do next. The Russian's obviously didn't employ mutants into their service, at least publically, so the correct guess would be that he was a Sentinel agent. And despite his little group's problems with that little government-employed agency, it hardly made him some manner of absolute enemy. And, although Allerdyce recognised and often thought on his willingness to kill (or at least inflict grievous bodily harm), he hardly thought of himself as possessing a sadistic streak. Perhaps a better description for his capability for killing would be apathy or even sociopathy (at least he'd rather like the latter _not_ to be the case).

Yet there he was, with one of Charles Xavier's lapdogs at his mercy, completely at a loss as to how to proceed. There would be a distinct difference in his mind between the times he had killed before, like the Russian man in the corridor earlier (which could easily be considered combat pragmatism, at least in his mind) to killing this defeated opponent. Was that the distinction between killing and murder? Before he could continue that line of thought, he heard a shout behind him.

"John? John! What the heck do you think you're doing? We need to go, right now!"

_She never swears, does she?_ He found that trait quite endearing, he decided there and then. He turned his back to the collapsed figure behind him, the flaming circle around them collapsing in perfect sync, to face the red-haired girl who was running toward him. She had clearly at some point discarded her coat and he couldn't help himself from admiring her currently active femininity. Truth be told though, he didn't hate himself for it. "I've just brought a Sentinel to his knees, Jean. Go ahead and tell me how productive _your_ last five minutes were."

She stopped beside him and let her upper body collapse, gripping her knees with her hands and breathing rapidly. "Piotr… Nikolaievitch has just driven off with the target and he… he seems pretty niffed-off," she eventually choked out. "I've got some other agent… in the car we came in."

Still facing her, he nodded to the collapsed agent on the street, who had finally finished coughing up and was now laying curled up on the road surface. "So, should we bring him along with us?"

After a few more attempts at regaining her breath, she glanced up at where he had indicated. "I…" she choked out, "I really don't know. Is… is he a mutant?"

He nodded again. "Yeah, does stuff with ice. Don't you think that's funny?"

"Why's… why's that?"

"Because I control fire, right?"

"Oh. I guess." She turned her gaze back and looked up at him. "Just leave him, I guess. We can't just lug two of them back," she paused, glancing at the man by the street again. "We really shouldn't of let him see us though, should've we? Especially considering that you mentioned my name just now. Should we really just let him go?"

He looked across the street, its tarmac melted. A lamp post had utterly collapsed, now missing its upper half and bending away from where his flames had been. He turned his head towards the still burning apartment complex. Smoke was now pouring out of it into the night's sky. "Well," he began, "it's not like it could do any more damage. Let's just get out of here."

She pulled herself upright and motioned to an alley besides the apartment. She smiled. "I parked the car down there earlier. And one agent is good enough, right?"

* * *

Patrick "Scott" Summers lit a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He was sat in his desk chair, his spare arm gripping its polished wooden surface, glancing over the numerous documents that were scattered around his communication system. It had been silent for an hour now. After a drag he lowered the cigarette to the surface of his desk and, holding it there, glanced around at the wooden panelling of his office. Links and connections; three agents in Cherkavi, twenty or so SIS agents in Russia (he had already asked Xavier for the names and current aliases). And Barr – who knew what damage could occur if he let out what had taken place between himself and Monroe in that small Russian café ; a loose end. He lifted the fag to his mouth and cast his gaze to along to another document. On its cover was paper-clipped a photo, featuring three identical men. Another loose end.

A knock on the door. He tapped his cigarette against the side of his ashtray and asked the person on the other side of the door to enter. He could resolve this. A young woman in a black suit entered, her dark brown hair wrapped in a bun. He could still resolve all this. Moira quietly shut the door behind her and made her way to his desk. He signalled with the hand, still holding his fag between his middle and index finger, to the spare chair on the other side of his desk. He made a mental note of what an attractive image the young woman cut and immediately hated himself for it. She slowly slid down into the chair, averting her gaze.

"Miss MacTaggert, thank you for coming on such short notice. The Professor has said a good load of praise about you." He studied her face. Nervous, but that was likely due to being called into his office at short notice in the current climate that gripped the department. And if anyone understood that she had no real reason to be anything other than self-assured, it was him. He had read her file and conceded it was impressive, but then again it must be for such a young _human_ woman to be walking around Strawberry Fields.

"I'd like you to handle something for me. This is strictly confidential, of course."

"Of course, Mr Summers." she replied. _Just call me Scotty_, thought Summers. _Every jackass here does._

He took another drag before continuing. "Things have erupted in Russia this afternoon, but you don't need the details. What I need you to do is to find," he coughed, "and contain anything that might imply we were part of that mess." He once more tipped his cigarette against the side of the ashtray and looked up at her once more. "I've arranged a small task force of agents to help you with this, but please be discrete in how much you reveal to them. I'll of course give you clearance to all files related to today's events."

She looked up at him, before glancing at the documents laid out on the desk between them. After some hesitation, she looked up at him once more and spoke. "Mr Summers, I have to ask why you're trusting me with this." She paused, clearly trying to choose her next words correctly. "What I mean sir, is that we've never had much contact before today. If I may, I'd like to ask why you're choosing me for this task over any other man or woman you know on a far more personal level here."

He gazed at her for a moment, before lifting his cigarette once more to his lips. Taking a drag, he closed his eyes for a few moments; the smoke filling the air around him in small wisps. He then brought the cigarette down to the ashtray one final time and stubbed it out. "Simply put, Miss MacTaggert, the Professor trusts you. I personally trust the Professor and, by that extension, you. And if the events in Cherkavi today hold any meaning, it's that trust is a valuable thing here right now." He placed his hand on his pack of cigarettes and pulled one to his mouth. He went to light it, then placed the light back on the desk for the meanwhile. "It's now clear that there's definitely an intelligence leak in Strawberry Fields."

* * *

_Hey, just wanted to say thank you to everyone so far whose taking the time out to read this story! Sorry about the slow updates (work, family and relational dramas withstanding aha!), I can't believe I'm still only maybe 1/6th through this, having to stop myself from rushing to the more juicy stuff later on! Thank you for all the feedback so far, it really is amazing to be able to hear that people are reading your work! If you have any opinions you want to share, or even speculation and the like, feel more than free to do so! - KC_


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

"You'll never live like common people. You'll never do whatever common people do." – Pulp, _Common People_

* * *

_Alright, just stay calm. Perfectly calm. You know there's plenty of reasons to NOT be calm right now, but it might be best to ignore those for the moment. Like how I can't see a thing. Or how I can't move a single part of my body right now. Or how I can't use my powers. Or that I may or may not currently be gagged and bound to a chair in some place somewhere in Russia. So, you know, if I ignore all that for now everything should be fine. Man, is this really how I spent the first day of my first holiday ever? Sent to steal from the Russian military, held a gun to someone's head and now might, might have been kidnapped? I guess it could be worse, I could be in Cornwall. Man, I really held a gun up to that lady's head, didn't I? That was pretty badass. I mean, I know it's kinda expected in these kinda situations, but that was some real Die Hard stuff there back. I'm practically Bruce Willis, but significantly less bald. Like, I'm a baldless Bruce Willis. I have to wonder, am I weird for preferring that one in the airport to the one in the hotel? No wait, it wasn't a hotel was it? Oh yeah, it was a Japanese company or something. At least, the guy in-charge was Japanese. I think. Does assuming it was a Japanese company because it was run by a Japanese guy make me a bit racist? Can a mutant be racist? I mean, I guess you get racist black guys and stuff. Wait, are we even a race? Like, I'm Jewish and a mutant now too? Does that make me mix-raced? I need to check that out when I get home. OH SHIT! Ok, stay calm Kitty. Stay calm. Alright, let's try doing what you do again. It doesn't SEEM to be working… Oh crap! What if I'm doing it right now as we speak (well, as I think)? I could be freefalling right now. Well, isn't that a harrowing thought, Kitty? It's that sort of thinking that is really going to help you stay calm and focus on the matter at hand. Man, I bet Miss Munroe never gets into situations like this. She's always so cool and collected and in control and a little bit ethnic but totally in a sexy way (am I gay for totally just thinking that?). Wait, what even happened to those guys? The last time I spoke to them was before that entire mess happened. Munroe, Bobby, Hitchcock… Well, actually screw Bobby, but I really hope the other two are alright. Even if that Hitchcock guy is a tad bit weird. Ok. Focus now. It's now focusing time. So: I held a gun to that lady's head. Now I'm in this current unpredictable predicament. So, like, what even happened to me? Did I get, like, knocked out or something? And why can't I see anything? It's genuinely like I haven't got a body, I can't move a single thing or sense anything. Wait, what if I don't have a body anymore?! Like, for all I know this could just be, like, my psyche floating around. Or maybe I'm having a REALLY bad trip here. Go to Russia, they said. You're the only one who can help us pull this off, they said. I mean, I was doing my GCSEs only less than a year ago! _

"Ground Control to Jean Grey! It's your turn to deal, babycakes."

She jumped. She turned back to face Allerdyce and smiled. "Sorry, was having too much fun listening in or our guest back there." They were sat outside on the balcony with a table between them, a deck of cards and a bottle of vodka placed on it. Inside the hotel room, they had placed the sentinel on the bed, having put her under some sort of makeshift trance. They had been sat playing card games for the last hour, waiting for someone, anyone, to meet them at the hotel. It had been five hours since they had left Cherkavi. They made their way to the hotel chosen beforehand, a hundred or so miles away from that Russian town.

"Still no psychic fax from anyone yet?"

"Nope. I guess we should consider this as our reward for all our hard effort lately," she laughed. "A nice, all-paid-for night in a crappy hotel."

John Allerdyce smiled and reached for the bottle of vodka, pouring himself and Jean another small glass full each. "It's your turn to run down and get more lemonade, Jeany-Baby."

She groaned. The vodka was strong, so they had been going down to the bar downstairs in turns to buy cans of lemonade to mix it with. Jean _despised _coke. She reached into the pocket of her parka and pulled out her pack of cigarettes. The almost completely full ash tray besides her drink spoke volumes about her habit, a thin line of smoke flowing into the cold night's air from a half-snubbed out cigarette. "Ok, how about a bit of bribery? A cigarette for you to get off your _own_ ass?"

He smiled again, his eyes once more closed as his mouth formed it, and shook his head. "You know I don't smoke. Filthy habit."

She sighed and looked down at the ash tray. She carefully put the tip of her index finger onto the still smoking butt and pressed it down into the glass until the seam of smoke stopped. "You know, I can't help but feel a bit annoyed, hearing that from you of all people. Like, you even carry around that lighter for your little bouts of pyro-frenzy. You seriously that against smoking?"

He laughed a short "ha". "To be honest, I've got nothing against people who _do _smoke. In fact, I used to be a thirty-a-day guy. I guess I just don't want to be a walking, talking cliché."

Jean raised her head and looked at the man on the other side of the table. It was then she noted to herself how little she knew about John Allerdyce. They hardly spoke outside of these little field-trips; sure, he'd make conversation with the rest of them, but it was really just him teasing Kurt and mock-flirting with her and any other girl present. She decided there and then as she looked into his eyes, him returning her gaze with a sly smile, that now was the time to get to know her comrade that little bit more.

"When did you pack it up?"

"When I found out I was a mutant," he replied, still not breaking eye contact. Still wearing that smile.

"On the spot?"

"Pretty much."

"There and then?"

"Yep."

"How did you find out you were a mutant?"

She could see that question had hit the spot, as he momentarily glanced towards the door into the hotel room, where the comatosed agent was still lying on the bed. It was a brief glance, not even a second long, and he had of course immediately turned back to face her, but it was enough to tell Jean that she had crossed the threshold. He stayed silent for a few seconds, holding her eye contact once more, before finally speaking.

"Tell you what Jean. You tell me how you found out you were a mutant and I'll tell you my version," he replied, that smile still painted across his face. A smug smile, but still a handsome one, although Jean would rather eat her own foot before admitting that out loud. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine – which, by the way, we should definitely do for real later."

Jean hesitated. She lowered her hand to grasp the glass of vodka and, bringing it to her lips, grimaced at the taste. She swallowed, coughed, and placed the glass back down again.

"I was sixteen."

"You were sixteen."

"I started hearing voices."

"I asked when you found out you were a mutant, not when you realised you were batshit."

"In my case, it was more or less the same." She paused. She looked at the glass of vodka in front of her and, within a heartbeat, whipped it to her mouth and poured the content down her throat. She coughed, and then coughed again. After ten seconds or so, she had gotten her throat to stop seizing. When she opened her eyes, John Allerdyce was no longer sitting back in his chair. He was leaning forwards over the table, a hand dead in the air. He was no longer smiling.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Anyway, I started hearing voices. I tried to keep it to myself but, long story short, they started getting louder than the actual voices around me. I told my parents and, naturally, they locked me up in a madhouse." She spoke quickly, no longer trying to hold Allerdyce's gaze but staring down at the ashtray. "It was in there I started smoking, funnily enough. The staff were pretty 'laxed. The other guys being held there were pretty decent, all things considered. They must've felt sort for me, being a sixteen year old girl in that place with them. Or maybe they wanted to _fuck_ me, I don't know. Someone would get them smuggled in by relatives and pass them around. Obviously not me though, my parents never came to visit me. My sister used to. Used to sneak out of the house and get a train there. I think she'd pretend she was seeing friends for the day or something. She was pretty young back then. Thinking about it now, it's weird that she was allowed in without her parents. But maybe the guards just felt sorry for the little teenage schizo she would ask to see, I don't know. But she stopped visiting me after six months. I think her parents found out. No more visits, no letters. Not that she had been allowed to send me letters beforehand. Luckily, it was only a couple of months later when the Professor and Tutor found me."

"Which one came?"

She glanced up. She had to do a double take; John Allerdyce had his elbows on the table. His hands clasped together. His upper body slumped forwards. His face expressionless. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"Professor or Tutor? Which one came to see you?" He spoke quietly, his head slightly dropped, his gaze on her.

"Tutor. It was Tutor." She glanced down to her pack of Marlboro Reds and, after some hesitation, pulled out a cigarette and brought it to her lips. As she lit it, Allerdyce spoke up.

"Did you ever explain things to your parents? Like, tell them you were a mutant all along?"

"No, I didn't. Haven't spoken to them since they had me carried out of their home by the men in white coats. Scott said Charles once wrote to them about it, but apparently he never got a reply."

"Scott?"

"Summers."

"Oh."

They didn't speak for a couple of minutes. She stared out over the railings next to them, her eyes sweeping across the town below. She had no idea where Allerdyce was looking. She closed her mind and checked on the girl in the room behind them; silent. Definitely there though, she must have gone to sleep. After a while, Allerdyce spoke up.

"I was twenty..."

* * *

…second year at university. Studying English Literature and making out with my girlfriend during my spare time. It was pretty easy, in all honesty. First year was a laugh; met my girl on the second week, asked her out on the third. Hung out with friends most nights, _our_ friends I guess, and occasionally went to lectures. It was a complete breeze. Passed with flying colours. Anyway, it was my second year. I had spent the day writing my piece on Nabokov. _I was the shadow of the waxwing slain_, et cetera et cetera, _window pane_. My friends, _our _friends, had invited us both out that night. Some student bar in town. We'd been there before, it was pretty shitty but oh well, I had spent the day working away so I thought it'd do me some good. Now, my girlfriend – she was the jealous type. Not that I held it against her. Well, after the arguments anyway. And there were a lot of them. All I had to do was speak to another girl and it risked her blowing her fuse. Like, she wouldn't just go crazy there and then, but she wouldn't speak to me until we got back to our dorm. Did I mention she lived in the same dorm as me? That's important later. But anyway, I didn't blame her for it. Her father was a wanker. Cheated on her mother quite a few times and, when it came to light (it always came to light), he'd guilt-trip her. Make her think she was to blame. Not paying him enough attention and the like. Once, when she was thirteen, my girl I mean, the dad just up and left. He was gone for a good few months, shagging some other woman. Anyway, I think it messed her up a bit. Gave her trust issues. And, even though we got into a lot of fights due to it, I didn't hold it against her. She was great. But anyway, there we are in the bar, and her phobia of me being in the slightest sociable to other girls triggered. One of her friends, or a friends of a friend of hers, I can't remember. But anyway, I was talking to her for a bit. Maybe she was being a bit flirty. I honestly can't remember. All that matters is that it triggered off that little pocket of insecure space that my girlfriend had. Like, a match being struck in a room full of gas. Not that I'm trying to make a metaphor out of all this. Anyway, that did it.

Afterwards, we all went back to our dorm. Well, those of us who lived there. Me, my girl and maybe four or five friends. We got into one of those minibuses, the seven seaters, and for the whole thirty minute drive she didn't say a thing. Not a single thing, despite how hard I tried to strike the match. And there I am again, making flame related metaphors. Trust me, I'm not doing it deliberately. Or at least, I don't think I am. But anyway, we get back to the dorm. We went to one on of our rooms, mine or hers. I can't remember. Normally, we stayed togeather for the night. I'd bunk in her room or she would bunk in mine. And, normally, this is where she'd let loose, once the door was closed. And we'd do the same old routine. She'd have her go and I would offer the same old rhetoric. But tonight, that night, that wasn't the case. I went with her to her room – that's right, it was her room - and only then did she speak up. I still remember that moment vividly. Like, I'm not even sure how accurate it is in my memories. Maybe, after so much time I've romanticised it. Made it into some cliché. But I'll tell it as I can remember it. She was on the other side of her door, looking out between the crack. She had already put the bolt across so, from where I was standing, the bronze chain was across her face. She said, "See you in the morning". That was all. I can't remember what expression she wore. How she said it. If she was smiling or crying. All I can remember was those five little words. _See you in the morning_.

Anyway, I was in a foul mood. I knew I had upset her,_ hurt_ her. And what was worse, I hadn't done it intentionally. I mean, I hated those sort of guys who did that. Who aim to keep their girlfriends and the like on their toes, playing on their insecurities, being mean to keep them keen or whatever that shitty phrase is. But I suppose that was what made it all feel so worse. She was upset, and I hadn't meant to cause it. I remember back then how hard I tried, how _hard_ I tried not to upset her. To make her feel safe, To make her feel like she had nothing to worry about from me. That she could fall in my arms and I would hold and _nothing_ would ever threaten that. But life isn't like that. I suppose that's the difference between reality and fiction; in the real world, good intentions and determination can't cure people. And, at that time, I couldn't find a way to make her feel safe.

So there I was, having taken my girlfriend to her room, when I ran into Mark. Mark was a good friend of the two of us, having started university in the same dorm at the same time as us. His girlfriend lived on the same floor as mine, so that only helped our friendship. Anyway, I ran into him and he invited me out onto his balcony for a drink. Now, there was an almost recurring joke about our dorm rooms. Each one had its own unique feature, which set it out against the others. For example, my girlfriend's room had a wardrobe that had been made into a wall. While everyone else had to put away their clothes into a wooden wardrobe, she had that little bit more space. Anyway, you can see where I'm going with this – the unique feature of Mark's room was his balcony. Now, Mark clearly knew that something was going on. Spend enough time in another couple's company and you start knowing all their signs. But anyway, he invites me out for a drink on his balcony. He had a bottle of Glenlivet or something of the like, of all things; he didn't even drink whiskey. But there we were, at 2AM in the morning, drinking whiskey and talking for the next two hours or so. About me and her. About him and his. I can't tell you really what we talked about, being in the state I was in at the time, but I can tell you that Mark was probably my closest friend. So, after hanging out for what must've been two hours, I said goodnight and made my way to my room. I made my way back to my bed, severely drunk at this point, before noticing the phone that rested on my bedside table. I suddenly had this image of my girlfriend waking up tomorrow, her lecture in the early morning and going to it in a bad mood. I knew at this point I had crossed my alcohol threshold and that, despite my best efforts, there was no way I could wake up the next morning and reassure her before she went that everything was still cool between us. That everything was fine. So I picked up the phone and dialled her room number. Of course, it went to her message machine, but I expected as much. It had been a couple of hours since I walked her to her room, so of course she was already asleep. So I left a message. I apologised if I had upset her. I said I didn't mean to. I told her I love her. I hadn't said that to her yet. At least, not to her face. After I put the phone down, I thought it was such a lousy way to say it, over a phone message. But I decided there and then, after I had put the phone down, that I'd greet her outside her lecture hall, some flowers at hand, and repeat that fact. That I loved her. After deciding that, I crawled into bed.

They said it was the radiators. They couldn't be sure what exactly had triggered it, but it was the radiators that had cause the fire. According to the report that the university officials had written, each one had gone of simultaneously in each room. Well, all but one room. My room's uniqueness was that it didn't have a radiator. They used to keep them on during the summer. Whoever was in charge of heating at the university, I mean. So my room's benefit, in the eyes of everyone in the dorm, was that my room was the coolest during the summer. So when I woke up that night, all I felt was slightly warm. I threw the blanket off me and tried to fall asleep again. My head was pounding, probably due to the drink. For five minutes, I just lied still, going in and out of consciousness in that final step to slumber. That's when I heard it. The screaming, I mean. And, as I listened to it, I lifted a hand to my face and noticed how badly I was sweating.

Now, it's not like I hadn't noticed some tell-a-tale signs during those last few weeks, Jean. I had observed a few things out of normal, but I was in delusion I guess. It was just absurd. The flame of my lighter suddenly going crazy after my hand had swooped across it? A fireplace suddenly erupting as I walked past? Of course, any man in that situation would wonder if they caused it. At most, an idle thought about it. But of course, I quickly forgot about all those tiny, insignificant instances. This was before mutants had entered the daily news. But anyway, back to the story you asked for. I got out of bed and opened the door. The moment I did so, I could feel the heat. It was only as I stepped outside that I noticed the flames. I don't really see the need of going into what happened after that, so I'll cut to forty minutes later. Me, standing outside the dorm complex, watching the firefighters hose down the blaze. Ten charcoaled bodies, placed and hidden under rugs, in front of me. Mark. His girlfriend.

My girlfriend.

I had made my way to each of their rooms, but in each case I was obviously too late. And as I was running about, utterly hysterical and desperate, there was this one thing I noticed; that as I approached them, the flames crept back. Like an army letting its king walk through the ranks. After that, it's all a blur. I stayed with a few friends a couple of blocks down, but I can't really say I remember that week or so. The next _clear_ memory I have after it all happened was going back into that bar, the bar we had all been in that night. I had left my bed at my friend's, not really able to nod off, and got a cab there. Not really sure why, maybe I expected to get some closure. Anyway, when I got there I ordered a drink at the bar. Or two. Maybe five, I can't remember. It was then I noticed a bunch of people, gathered around the table by the back of the bar. I knew them, some idiots who had lived near our dorm. They were heckling this band that was on, I can't remember their name and, truth be told, they were pretty shit. Some punk girl and her friends, all open muties. Like, they thought they were revolutionary or something. But anyway, they all left, the band and the group of cronies, and I was one of the last people there, drinking. I must've left at, what, 4am or something? Anyway, I was waiting outside for a cab when I heard a noise. Someone was crying down an alleyway. I went over to have a look and it was that girl from the band, with another bloke who I think was the drummer. I _think_. Anyway, they were both bruised and laying on the floor, her slumped against the wall and the guy just lying there. Blood spilling out his head. I never did check if he survived or not. Well, I asked the girl who did it and, of course, she told me it was that table of blokes from my university. I sort of left then, leaving her alone. I know it sounds harsh, but that's what I did. I got my cab and went to their dorm. They were all smoking outside it, five of them or so, and they started getting rowdy the moment I walked towards them. _What the fuck are you looking at_ and the like. But the thing is, I wasn't looking at them. One of them was just drunkenly playing with his lighter, keeping the gas running. I was just staring at that flame and remembering that night, the one the week before. How the flames kept breaking apart to let me past. And I imagined it coming alive and just eating those guys. Like a dragon. And of course, suddenly they were flaying around on the floor, engulfed in flames. I went to my dorm, got a couple hours of sleep and, naturally, fled the country. It was two months later Tutor approached me about joining your little band of merry men. I was in Paris at the time. They have some good larger over there."

He finished his story and poured himself another drink. He shook the vodka bottle dry into his glass and took a small sip. Jean sat there, staring at him, unaware that she was even still staring. An unlit cigarette dangled from in-between her lips.

"Now, I know you and the elf think I'm some sort of psychopath. I don't have to be some sort of mind-reader to know that. Maybe that's the case, but I certainly hope not," he said, smiling. "I know you guys are different. I know Javis Cocker was crying his eyes out over that guy he dropped from the sky yesterday. And you, Jean? I bet you remember all their faces. How many so far? Five? Maybe six? All I know, little Miss Grey, is that those Russian guys I killed today? That American yesterday? All the ones before? They don't mean anything. Not at the moment, not as I think about them here, right at this very moment. They don't mean a _thing_ to me. The fact that they might, _might_, have been decent people. The fact that they all probably had families back home. Nothing. And I think your little revolution needs people like me. People who don't wrack their brains over every little bit of spilt milk. I mean, I lost count after twenty. I'm pretty sure that number technically makes me a serial killer. I don't really know if I buy into your group and all its little principles, but I do know that one fact - You guys _need_ me. Because all I need to think about, in that moment where I make the decision to take someone out or not, are those ten black bodies I dragged out from my dorm." Jean looked away, over the top of the rooftops again. When she looked back, John Allerdyce's eyes were locked onto hers.

"Your lighter not working?" He smiled. That same smile. "Here, borrow _mine_."


End file.
